


Claiming What's Mine

by Cousin Shelley (CousinShelley)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Dubcon not between paired characters, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, First Kiss, First Time, Fuck Or Die, Haunting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Noncon not between paired characters, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex, Supernatural Elements, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinShelley/pseuds/Cousin%20Shelley
Summary: “I’ll give you some advice that might prove valuable to you someday, Witcher, if you won’t accept food or promises as payment.” She stepped closer to him and whispered, “My granny is a seer, full of the ways of magic most people don’t know. If you say a thing thrice, sometimes it can part the clouds and break a spell. That’s what she says.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 357
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Claiming What's Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hensday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hensday/gifts).



Geralt looked down at the short, frail woman who clasped her hands in front of her chest. “What about the Law of Surprise? I realize that’s a poor promise from someone as common as—”

“ _No_ ,” he said firmly, and patted her shoulder. He’d rather chew off his own foot than claim the Law of Surprise. Roach stamped and snorted next to him, as if to agree. 

“But it seems so wrong to offer you nothing after you’ve set my mind at ease. At least let me feed you a late dinner.”

“It’s nearly dark, and my companion and I intend to cover a great deal of ground before we sleep.” And Geralt wouldn’t take food from this family under any circumstances, but he wouldn’t hurt her pride by saying so. “Your thanks is more than enough.”

She beamed at him and tucked a lock of hair back into her kerchief. Darfina had approached him with trembling hands and begged him to kill the monster she swore sometimes hid in her root cellar for fear it would start eating the stores and leave them starving over the winter. He and Jaskier were only passing through this hamlet, but Jaskier had caught some maiden’s eye on the street and wandered off, and Darfina seemed to need his help, so Geralt had agreed. 

“I’ll give you some advice that might prove valuable to you someday, Witcher, if you won’t accept food or promises as payment.” She stepped closer to him and whispered, “My granny is a seer, full of the ways of magic most people don’t know. If you say a thing thrice, sometimes it can part the clouds and break a spell. That’s what she says.”

Geralt nodded, unable to keep a half-smile from his face. “Thank you. I’ll remember that.”

“You do so,” she said, then turned away and hurried back into her cottage, flashing a smile over her shoulder that hinted at how beautiful and vibrant she must have been before hard times and hunger had their way with her. 

Her advice was an old wives’ tale, he knew, as folk magic often involved threes. Most folk magic didn’t work, but he hadn’t the heart to point that out to her. 

Geralt mounted Roach to go in search of Jaskier, and had only rounded the corner of the inn when Jaskier ran out of the place. “Geralt! I was just about to go in search of you.”

“Found me.” Geralt turned Roach toward the path leading them on their way, while Jaskier jogged ahead. 

“Are we ready to leave? Because I think we should leave. Did you find her pantry monster?” he shouted over his shoulder.

“It was the family dog taking its shits somewhere dry when it rained. Their winter stores are safe.”

* * *

“Breasts,” Jaskier said after they’d found a suitable path through the woods and he’d deemed it safe to walk alongside Roach. “What wonderful things.”

Geralt sighed, but Jaskier wouldn’t be discouraged. His lute was strapped to Roach, so he hummed a tune, tried to put a few lyrics together in his ode to beautiful bosoms, but then composed in his head, only humming the occasional bar. They traveled in silence for a while, then Jaskier started reciting the rhymes he’d come up with for various lovely body parts.

Geralt sighed and interrupted him. “Why were you in such a hurry to leave? Make the maiden promises you couldn’t keep?”

“Ah. Very good, Geralt. But no. She was not a maiden. She was married.”

“You wanted to get out of town before the husband appeared.”

Jaskier laughed. “Oh, he’d already caught us.”

Geralt reached down and put his hand on top of Jaskier’s head, turning his head to the side for a better look. “You don’t look worse for wear. You get the better of him?”

Jaskier smiled broadly. “In a manner. He was only upset that we were leaving him out. So . . . we did _not_.” He’d taken a few steps before he realized he should have thought that without saying it.

“You lie with men?” Geralt’s question sounded exactly the same as every other thing he said. It lacked inflection, so Jaskier couldn’t judge whether anything lurked behind it. 

“When I can?” Part of him had always thought Geralt knew and didn’t care. Maybe he’d just hoped for that. 

All Geralt offered in return for this information was “Hmm.” He faced forward again and said nothing else. 

Jaskier, relieved, went back to composing. 

“I’ve only seen you pursue women.” Geralt was looking at him again. 

“Women are easier. Wait, I don’t mean _easier_ ,” he said, gesturing with both hands, “but it’s hard to tell who might be amenable to spending time with me, especially given the kinds of places we usually land. Why risk hooking the big angry fish who might want to drag me back into the stream and thrash me with its tail until I’m dead when I have a much better chance of hooking one that’s smaller and far less dangerous?” 

He wiggled his eyebrows. “But still tasty and satisfying. Oh, that’s good. I should write that down.” He patted his sides to do just that and realized Geralt still stared at him.

“If the husband wasn’t angry, why were you in such a rush to leave?” Geralt asked. 

“They started arguing about which one of them I liked better, and I was going to get dragged into that nasty business. Far be it from to come between a husband and his wife, I always say.” He winked at Geralt. 

Geralt continued to stare. Jaskier once again wondered if he’d fucked everything up. He took a deep breath. “Geralt, you don’t . . . do you care that I enjoy—”

“No.” Geralt frowned at him, then stared forward again. He knew Geralt’s various frowns, and that one had been irritation at Jaskier asking him a stupid question. He patted Roach’s flank and sped up to get ahead of them, turned and began reciting his ode to beautiful bosoms, ignoring the way Geralt rolled his eyes as if he didn’t want to hear such lovely poetry. 

* * *

“We can’t keep walking all night,” Jaskier complained to him as they looked around the largest room in the entrance of the house they’d come across on the trail. Jaskier had shouted _hello_ several times and decided it was abandoned, then Geralt lit two of the large candles they found on what seemed to be a dining table, though moonlight shone in through the large windows and made it easy to see. “Nobody else is using it,” he practically whined. 

“We’ve walked all night before.”

“Correction, I’ve walked all night next to you, who was conveniently riding a horse, but there’s no need for it. We’re still ahead of schedule, Geralt. It’s warmer in here, and dry.” He hurried down a hallway leading off the room. The sound of slamming doors echoed in the empty place. 

“ _There are beds!_ ” Jaskier came running, his eyebrows high on his forehead. He put his candle down and clasped his hands together like in prayer. “Beds that look relatively clean and are certainly more comfortable than the mud and rocks we’d be lying on.”

“Fine,” Geralt grunted and went to get Roach settled for the night. “Who would build a house this nice so far out into the woods?” he asked his horse. “And then leave it behind? Maybe some wealthy merchant on the run from the tax collectors?”

Roach had no more answers than he did. 

It wasn’t a gilded house by any means, but it was easily six times the size of the standard cottages you’d find in hamlets and villages on either side of them, and the ornate furnishings with their delicately carved wood were hundreds of times more expensive that the common rough-hewn wood tables and chairs with dried grasses woven to make the seats people here were accustomed to.

In truth, the bed Geralt now stared down at looked more inviting than any bed he’d ever slept in, and he was more tired than he’d felt in a while. 

“Fancy a snack?” Jaskier shouted from another part of the house. “Preserves, potatoes, onions, _jerky_ , Geralt, and dry wood stacked next to the cookstove.” A large washing bowl with a pitcher full of water sat on a table next to the bed as well. Geralt sniffed the water inside it, expecting it to be stagnant. It wasn’t. He sipped it. Fresh, cool spring water. Whoever left here had gone recently. 

A headache began to boil up behind his eyes. _So tired_. 

Jaskier stepped into the room, a piece of jerky in one hand and an apple in the other, his candle abandoned. “I think I’d like to live here and damn the rest.”

“Hm.” 

He tossed the apple to Geralt and lifted the heavy pitcher full of water, squinting at the design painted on its side. “Yours is fancier than mine.”

“Would you like to trade?” Geralt grumbled, took a huge bite of the apple, and tossed it back. 

“Mine’ll do. My bedspread’s prettier. Brocade.” Jaskier flashed him a smile and headed out of the room. “I’m going to sleep like the dead tonight. Don’t wake me too early, Geralt. Let me enjoy this as long as possible!”

Geralt pulled the bedcovers down and touched the sheets. Soft, almost silky. Lying down would be the best thing for his headache and his fatigue. He began to peel off his clothes. He wouldn’t ordinarily sleep naked, at least not alone, in case he had to get up and fight, but he didn’t want to dirty the sheets. The thought of all that softness against his skin held a certain appeal.

He slipped into the bed, and fought the momentary urge to get up again and sleep outside with Roach. Was he that unaccustomed to finer things he couldn’t even be comfortable for one night here? Maybe he should bring Roach inside to stay in the entrance overnight, in case it rained.

“Oh my god, Geralt, are your sheets as soft as mine?” Jaskier howled from the next room. 

Perhaps he should go to Jaskier’s room to check. What would he do if Geralt crawled into his bed to see for himself, and then stayed? 

He was tempted enough he sat up in the bed to think about it. But the warmth and softness of the sheets kept him from moving. No, as often as they’d traveled together, Jaskier had never hinted that he’d welcome Geralt’s company in that way. And he’d had so many opportunities. If he’d been interested, Geralt would have known. 

As he lay down and closed his eyes, sleep claiming him quickly, the voice that rang out inside his head sounded strangely like Jaskier’s. _But you’ve never made it known to him, and you had opportunities, too._

* * *

Jaskier opened and closed his legs and slid his arms up and down like a bird, luxuriating in the silky feel of the sheets against his bare skin. “My god, I could swim in this,” he mumbled. Each time he stopped moving, he felt like he sank two fists deep into the mattress. 

Geralt didn’t answer his question about the sheets. He must already be asleep, which meant he’d wake too early and want to run Jaskier out of this fucking marvelous bed so they could be on their way. 

He grabbed the last morsel of jerky off the little table next to the bed and shoved it into his mouth, moaning at the salty, smoky taste with just a hint of sweetness, the way he liked it. Better to close his eyes and possibly wake early too, and be able to enjoy lying there awake for a time before they left. 

Jaskier woke to the sound of something shifting in the room, the hiss of cloth rubbing together. Moonlight no longer streamed through the tall windows, and his candle was cold and out of reach. He knew he’d been asleep because he’d dreamed he was on horseback, Geralt’s white hair sometimes blowing back to tickle his face. 

The sound stopped, probably a draught somewhere, so once again he succumbed to the pull of sleep. The hiss came again, a slight movement as if someone got into the bed with him. But he was so tired he could barely crack his eyes open enough to look. 

When he did, Geralt’s face hovered above his.

“What are—”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Geralt said. “ _Close your eyes_.”

He obeyed, his lids too heavy to keep open anymore. Geralt’s hand wrapped around his cock, squeezed, then slid up his belly, his chest. Geralt’s touch was surprisingly cool, as if he’d had his hand in water, but it sent heat flooding into Jaskier all the same.

This was why Geralt had been so interested in the fact that Jaskier lay with men? He’d wanted this, too? Gods, what a lucky slip he’d made mentioning that husband. He’d have let on a long time ago if he thought Geralt had any interest in taking him to bed. 

Something cold and wet touched his cock. A tongue? Or a cold, wet hand?

“Were you outside?” he asked, but Geralt just said _shhhh_. 

Geralt’s hair tickled his belly, and then Geralt sucked him, his calloused hands gripping Jaskier’s ass cheeks and pulling them apart. Jaskier sank his fingers into Geralt’s hair and bucked his hips for more, the coolness not hindering his pleasure. Geralt moved up to lay atop him, his weight so much more unyielding than Jaskier would have imagined. 

Something wet pressed between his legs. He squinted at Geralt in the dark, could barely make him out, but his hair dragged across Jaskier’s face. He plunged himself into Jaskier with a sound that wasn’t quite a typical Geralt grunt or growl, but a rasp as if his throat were too dry. Jaskier arched his back, coming off the bed with the surprise of it, and clutched Geralt’s shoulders. The skin there was as cool as the rest of him. 

“I’ve wanted this a long time,” he dared whisper as Geralt fucked into him, pushing him deeper into the bed and its cool, silky sheets. 

“ _So have I_ ,” Geralt whispered back, voice still sounding painfully dry, his fingers clutching Jaskier’s hips hard enough to bruise as he drove into him. Geralt’s stomach pinned Jaskier’s cock between them, stroking him with every movement of their bodies. 

When Jaskier came with a wordless shout, Geralt pressed down and wrapped his arms around him so tightly it was hard to draw a deep breath. Jaskier shivered beneath him and felt strong, cool hands pull him toward a sleep deeper than he’d ever known. 

* * *

Geralt snapped awake to fingers walking across his ribs. He grabbed the offending wrist, ready to defend himself. But it was only Jaskier, naked, pressed against him and teasing him with light touches. He could barely make out Jaskier’s features in the dark, and wondered if a storm was brewing with clouds that blocked out the moonlight. 

Perhaps he should bring Roach in, after all. 

Jaskier rubbed his cheek against Geralt’s chest. How had Jaskier crawled into his bed without waking him? Was he that tired?

Geralt closed his eyes. They felt too dry and heavy to keep open. “Decide my bedspread was prettier?”

Jaskier’s cheek slid over Geralt’s stomach now. Cool air swirled over Geralt’s cock. 

“You’re chilled.” he asked, but touched Jaskier’s hair. He was there now, and Geralt didn’t want him to think he wasn’t pleased about it. 

Jaskier didn’t answer, but Geralt leaned up to look at him. His head moved side to side. 

“Cat got your tongue?” he asked. “You’re never this quiet.”

Jaskier straddled his hips and pressed his hands against Geralt’s chest. He sank down onto Geralt’s cock with the dry whisper, "Claiming what's mine." Whatever he’d used to ease the way was cold, but not cold enough to keep Geralt from getting harder than he’d been in a long time. Jaskier tossed his head back, arched his body, and fucked Geralt like it was all that mattered in the world.

Geralt gripped Jaskier’s hips and pulled him down each time, fucking up into him fast and hard. Gods, they could have had this long ago. Why hadn’t they—

Geralt shot up in the bed at the sound of someone shouting, eyes automatically trained on the doorway. 

Nothing. 

He groaned and lay back, his cock hard and aching for relief. He thought back to the dream, wanted to sink back into the delicious fantasy of it. He focused on how he’d been ridden like he was a galloping horse with a rider so eager to make him come, and he’d been _so fucking close_.

He wrapped his fingers around himself, but a dull pain between his eyes, the sound of dripping water and the damp chill of the room kept him from being able to enjoy it now. 

He sat up in the bed and put his feet on the floor, careful not to get a splinter from the rough, uneven planks. He pulled his clothes on, then his boots. Dawn was breaking, and he’d like to get to a village with a proper inn before nightfall if he could. 

A chipped pitcher sat near the bed, full from rainwater that dripped through the cracked ceiling. He poured some into the mismatched clay bowl, but sediment came with it. He grunted and decided to head toward the river first, refill his pouch and make sure Roach got plenty to drink, then on to Gatlea. 

When he climbed atop Roach and rode away from the little hovel where he’d slept, a broken piece of glass fell out of the front window pane and shattered on the hard ground outside, and a chunk of the ceiling on the other side collapsed. He should have slept outside. Was probably safer. 

* * *

Jaskier woke, refreshed and comfortable, no crick in his neck or bruised back from sleeping on the ground. He stood and stretched, and looked out the tall window in his bedroom, surprised he’d slept until daybreak. A comfortable bed did wonders for a person. 

He looked forward to the _I told you so_ he’d be giving Geralt when he—

 _Geralt._

Jaskier spun and looked at the bed he’d just left. Geralt had joined him during the night. And apparently left before Jaskier woke. Disappointing, but he wouldn’t read anything into it. Maybe he had to piss, or got worried over Roach possibly getting sprinkled on, like that horse would melt. 

Jaskier pulled on his trousers and batted at a couple of black flies buzzing around his head. An apple core on the nightstand, rotten and browned with age, was attracting them. He hadn’t noticed it there last night. 

That couldn’t be what was left of his apple. He and Geralt had eaten most of it, and it should be brown and dry this morning but not covered in rot. He tossed it into the corner and brushed his fingers together. 

“Geralt?” He went across to the room where Geralt had gone to bed but neither he nor his clothes were there, just the unlit candle from when they arrived. He wandered around the house, marveling at how dark the inside seemed though he could clearly see how sunny the day was turning outside. 

As he crossed the room that served as a foyer, he spotted Geralt outside making Roach ready for travel. “Finally.” 

He pushed the double-doors at the entrance and nearly slammed face-first into them. He pushed again, then pounded against one with his fist. “Very funny, Geralt. Lock the late sleeper inside. Ha ha.”

He went to the window and knocked on the glass to get Geralt’s attention, a sarcastic look ready on his face for when Geralt turned. 

He didn’t. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier knocked harder on the glass and shouted his name. Geralt mounted Roach and looked at the window where Jaskier stood, but not at _him_. Jaskier beat his fists against the glass, then hissed and jerked away, a cut across his palm running with fresh blood. 

Blood smeared the perfectly intact window.

“ _Geralt!_ ” He beat at the glass, gasping as another cut appeared in his hand, then hurried to grab a wooden chair, almost too heavy to swing the way he wanted. He swung it backward and threw it at the window with all the strength he had. 

It should have crashed through. It bounced off. 

Geralt rode away without a single backward glance.

* * *

The longer Geralt rode, the less his head hurt until finally the pain disappeared completely. By the time he passed through a small village with a busy tavern, he felt well enough to stop for a meal and an ale. 

When he dismounted and tied Roach to one of the posts outside, he lifted the lute that was attached to Roach’s saddlebag. Where the hell had it come from? He thought back to the last few places he’d been. 

Darfina? Had she somehow packed that onto Roach because he wouldn’t take payment? He supposed he could sell it, or take it back. 

He stared at it, uneasy, until laughter from inside the tavern drew his attention. 

“Be good,” he told Roach, then he went inside and found a table in the emptiest part of the establishment to wait for his venison stew and ale.

* * *

Jaskier sat slumped with his back against the doors, hands a mess of oozing, burning cuts, blood dappling his trousers and his bare torso. He hoped the wounds on his hands wouldn’t affect his playing, then realized his lute was with Geralt. 

Geralt, who had bedded him and then left him behind. 

“No, no, no. This doesn’t make any sense!” He stood and stared out the window that was smeared with his blood. How had it not broken yet cut his hand? Magic was the only explanation, that or he had gone mad at some point during the night. Neither made sense to him.

“Why would Geralt leave me?” 

_He wouldn’t_ echoed inside his mind. 

_He did_ was the answer someone rasped, a dry whisper so soft Jaskier could convince himself he imagined it. So he did.

Jaskier shivered, and went to the bedroom to put on the rest of his clothes against the chill. 

When he saw the bed, he wanted nothing more than to lie down in it and pull the bedclothes around himself to get warm. It was a shame to get the sheets bloody, but warmth and comfort seemed more important right now than worrying about soiling sheets someone left behind, no matter how soft and silky they were. 

Jaskier crawled into the bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. Cold hands touched his back. He shouted and rolled out of the bed, but didn’t get his feet beneath him and slammed to the floor. He scrambled up until he stood with his back against a wall. 

Cold hands touched his chest, then one wrapped around his wrist and pulled him toward the bed. He dug in his heels, could feel the splinters digging into the bottoms of his feet, but couldn’t fight the relentless force dragging him to the bed. He stopped fighting and dove into it, pulling the covers up as if they could protect him. 

Cold fingers left trails over his skin, jerked down his trousers, pushed inside him. He tried to fight them, but unseen hands clamped around his wrists and held him in place. Hair, hair he’d thought was Geralt’s the night before, slid over his face. It hadn't been Geralt. None of it had been.

Jaskier held out some insane hope that he might see Geralt there, above him, that this was all some kind of a fever dream or misunderstanding. Even knowing it wasn't really him it would be better to see his face than anything else he might see. All he saw was a shadow, blocking out the light, making him feel like he was being swallowed up in a dark, icy cloud. 

“Please don’t,” he whispered, the trembling in his voice making him more afraid. A cold hand stroked his cheek as his legs were pulled apart and unyielding coldness drove into him. 

Jaskier squeezed his eyes closed, or he might actually go mad after all. 

* * *

Geralt’s stew was adequate, but the ale was watered down. And his stomach felt uneasy, as if he’d eaten something too rich, too fast. He’d planned to sit a while until the feeling passed, but a bard came tripping into the tavern, trying to rouse the crowd to pay attention to him, telling jokes and being far too loud for Geralt’s liking. 

He threw his coin on the table, drained his tankard and rose to leave. 

“ . . . _with Geralt of Rivia, along came this song_. . .”

The fucking song was about _him_? He sat, staring daggers at the bard. 

“ . . . _broke down my lute and they kicked in my teeth_. . .” 

“What the fuck?” he said, drawing a stare from the closest patron. A lute? 

The chorus came, and the more the bard sang, the more the unease in Geralt’s stomach worsened. His headache came back. And for the first time in recent memory, when he went to take another drink, forgetting the tankard was already empty, his hand shook. 

When the song was finished and some shouted encouragement while others jeered, Geralt stomped across the tavern and hauled the bard outside by his collar. 

“That song,” he growled. “It’s about me.”

“You’re . . . oh my god, you’re the White Wolf?” His ruddy face lit up. “I hope you enjoyed my performance. I—”

“Why did you write it?”

“What?”

“The song!”

“Your traveling companion wrote it, of course. You . . . know that.”

“I travel alone!”

The bard frowned and stared at Geralt like he was some kind of curiosity, both strange and horrible. “It was written by Julian Alfred Pan—Pan something. But he goes by—”

“I know no one by that name.”

“He goes by Jaskier.”

Geralt gasped and dropped the bard, whom he’d been holding on his tiptoes. He knew that name, he knew that song, but why? How?

“Where can I find him?” he demanded. 

“I have no idea, sir. The last stories I heard said he was traveling with you.” 

Geralt turned in a slow circle and looked around, maybe looking for this Jaskier, he didn’t even know. But his stomach twisted and his head pounded, and it gave the bard enough time to take off running away from the tavern. 

Geralt stumbled to Roach and touched the lute, the strains of the song loud inside his head. A song written by . . . Jass . . . what was the name the bard had given him? 

_Jaskier._ It could be Jaskier’s lute he had, couldn’t it? He should go back, retrace his steps and return it. The last place he’d been, he’d helped a Darfina Voiles, a helpless and nearly starving woman, discover her dog was making the messes in her root cellar, not a monster. 

Her grandmother, she said, had been a seer, full of magic knowledge. So why had she needed a Witcher to tell her it was her dog shitting the corner instead of merely asking her grandmother? 

_If you say a thing thrice, sometimes it can break a spell._

He remembered the bright smile she flashed him over her shoulder, the hint of something in it. Not just beauty, something more. Something wise, and old. What if she had the gift, like her grandmother? 

Geralt cleared his throat. He struggled to remember the name again, and when it came, he said, “Jaskier.” Geralt’s legs weakened, but he caught himself with one knee before he fell completely. His stomach lurched. 

“Jaskier.” Pain exploded behind his eyes. The sense he’d lost something valuable, something that belonged to him that he desperately needed to find, sent icy tendrils across his chest and through his veins. 

“ _Jaskier,_ ” he said, and gasped in a breath so deep he coughed. He saw Jaskier’s face in the window as he screamed Geralt’s name, his hand breaking through the glass and sending a shard crashing to the ground. 

“Fuck!” Geralt forced his nausea down and clenched his jaw against the headache that made his eyes water. He mounted Roach, and they galloped out of the village, back the way they’d come. 

* * *

How many days had he been in this place? He didn’t think the sun had set yet. Unless he’d been asleep and missed the night coming. He had slept, hadn’t he? 

Jaskier felt exhausted, like he hadn’t slept in weeks. 

He’d been all over the house, looking for a way out or a place he could hide from the cold thing that wouldn’t stop touching him. Last time it had dragged him to the bed, Jaskier had tried so hard to pretend it was Geralt, just to make it bearable. He’d closed his eyes and imagined Geralt, cool from a dip in the river, rocking into him, touching him. 

The touch to his lips, though, was too much. He couldn’t fight it off, but he kept his mouth clamped closed so it couldn’t kiss him. If he let it, he couldn’t imagine it was Geralt. Even if Geralt held ice in his mouth, Jaskier was sure the kiss would still be warm somehow, that maybe he could taste the heat of him. 

He was hungry, and had gotten thirsty enough to drink from the pitcher in the bedroom, even though one moment the water tasted fresh and clear and the next it tasted like mud, and grit caught in his teeth. 

How long could he survive here? It dawned on him that he could be trapped here if he died there, like whatever followed him from room to room, stroking his hair and trying to arouse him. He went window to window, trying to break through with every heavy object he could find, but the result was the same as before. Pounding with his fists would be pointless, and only further hurt his hands. 

He pressed his forehead against the cold glass in the front window near the doors. “I don’t want to die here, not like this,” he whispered. An icy hand touched the back of his neck, as if trying to soothe him. 

The sound of hoofbeats came to him, and Roach galloped into the little clearing, Geralt already spinning to jump down before the horse had stopped. 

Relief spread warmth through Jaskier’s body.

“Geralt!” he shouted, and forgetting himself he pounded his fist against the window. He heard the glass break this time, though it looked like a perfect smooth square, just as before. 

Geralt looked at him, really _saw_ him this time. 

“Oh thank the gods,” Jaskier said, laughing. As Geralt approached, Jaskier’s feet were yanked out from underneath him, throwing him face down. Something dragged him through the entranceway, toward the hall. 

“Geralt!” 

Geralt’s face in the window, wide-eyed and angry, was the last thing he saw before he was dragged into the bedroom and the door slammed closed behind him. 

* * *

The house’s real appearance was so different from the way it had looked when they’d gone inside. It had looked like a wealthy man’s home before, well-kept but abandoned. It was barely standing now, dilapidated and rickety. 

As Geralt dismounted, Jaskier’s face appeared in the broken front window as he shouted Geralt’s name. A hot wave of relief washed through Geralt. Jaskier disappeared, and Geralt reached the window in time to see him dragged down the hallway, trying to claw into the boards, but unable to fight whatever gripped him. 

The house transformed from the hovel it was to the way he remembered it from the night before, the window no longer broken, the front doors solid and secure. He threw himself against it, blasted it with his magic, and had the urgent sense that in the time it would take him to get through this way, it might be too late. 

He understood now. Like the witch with her candy house luring children inside to make her supper, this house or whatever was trapped here had lured them in, too. And thanks to Darfina, a woman he was sure needed no help but had foreseen that Geralt would need some soon, he knew how to break the spell. 

“Jaskier,” he said, the illusion in front of him shimmering, watery and transparent. He said the name again, and the third time, the image fell away. He kicked in the front doors, marched to the bedroom, where the door had already fallen from the frame, and found Jaskier, his clothes bloodied and torn, backed into a corner, pushing against something he couldn’t see. 

Geralt grabbed his arms and pulled him away easily. “Come on.”

Jaskier hung onto him as they ran for the door. Geralt was pulled off his feet as he went through, his hand still tight around Jaskier’s arm, because Jaskier slammed into an unseen barrier at the entrance and was thrown backward. 

“No!” Jaskier shouted, crawling for the door. He stood and bolted for the opening, and bounced off as if he’d hit a solid wall. “Geralt?” 

Geralt reached through the doorway with no resistance. He stepped back through, and out again. There had to be a way for Jaskier to get out. Jaskier backed up to Geralt so that his shoulder pressed against Geralt’s arm, as if he didn’t want to get too far away from him. Geralt put a hand on the back of his neck. 

The sense that he’d lost something that belonged to him came rushing back, and he shouted at the ceiling of the house, “He doesn’t belong to you. You can’t keep him!” 

Why had Geralt managed to leave while Jaskier was kept behind? Because he was a Witcher? Or because it didn’t want him but wanted Jaskier? 

“Last night, what happened?” Geralt asked. 

“You came to my bed. Well, not you, but I thought so at the time.” Jaskier’s voice was hoarse, and Geralt idly wondered how much he’d screamed.

“I thought you came to my bed, too.” 

Jaskier faced him. “You did?”

“We fucked, I thought I heard a shout and woke up. I was interrupted.”

Jaskier licked his lips. “I . . . wasn’t.”

Could that be it? “So it claimed you, but not me.”

“What do we do?” Jaskier whispered. 

“I have to take you away from it.”

“How, if I can’t get out the door?” Jaskier twisted his hands together. Dried and fresh blood covered the skin. “Can you do that, Geralt? Please, I want to leave this place.”

The damp eyes and bloodied hands of his friend pulsed anger through Geralt. He carefully took Jaskier’s wrist and pulled him toward the hall. The words false-Jaskier had sad to him came back to him. _Claiming what's mine_.

“I think I have to claim you, a claim stronger than it has.”

“Oh.” Jaskier’s dry swallow was audible. When they reached the bedroom, Jaskier said, “Not the bed. I don’t think I can—”

“That’s where it happened the first time?”

Jaskier straightened and nodded, and appeared resigned to the necessity of it. Cold wind whipped through the room, the moth-eaten curtains flapping. The lumpy mattress had one sheet that was barely there and a stiff blanket that looked coarse as burlap. Geralt spread it over the bed, and when Jaskier fumbled at the fastenings on his shirt, Geralt pushed his sore-looking hands out of the way and undressed him. 

Jaskier trembled, and the room got colder as Geralt removed his own clothing and waited for Jaskier to lie down on the bed. His thighs were bruised, his hips, his collarbone. Geralt moved over him, and hated the look in Jaskier’s eyes more than whatever creature had claimed him the first time. 

The fear wasn’t for him, he knew, but his eyes looked haunted, and Geralt couldn’t erase that. At least not yet. 

“Oh, you’re warm,” Jaskier said, his hands sliding over Geralt’s back.

Geralt kissed him, something he’d nearly done a hundred times before and regretted he hadn’t. It shouldn't be the first time, here in this forsaken place. The only way to make that more bearable, he realized, was to make sure it wouldn’t be the last time.

Jaskier made a strangled sound and put his hands on the back of Geralt’s head, holding him in place. “I’ve been so cold.”

“That’s over now,” Geralt said, and kissed him again, ignoring the chill against his back and the cracking sound in the walls around them. 

* * *

He’d been right about Geralt’s kiss. He could taste heat in it, and he wanted to swallow it down to thaw his frozen heart, his belly. The man was so warm it was like lying beneath a campfire, and Jaskier relaxed. 

The cracking and popping sounds around them could be the pop of firewood as it burns. He closed his eyes and imagined that to keep himself from being too afraid. 

Geralt’s hand touched his side, so different from the cold touch he’d had to endure, and unbelievably Jaskier started to harden. It had been coaxed from him every time, even when he thought he could bear no more, but it came easily this time with the relief and joy at having Geralt here. 

_He didn’t leave me._

The dry, raspy voice didn’t answer, but a howl, as if from a distance and growing closer, swirled through the air around them, angry and desperate. 

Geralt spit into his hand, and then Jaskier was pushed open again, but gently, slowly. Geralt took such care, more than he might have expected, and despite a little pain he found himself gripping around him, urging him to move faster with hands on his back. 

He jerked when an icy hand stroked his face, but Geralt realized something was wrong and kissed him again. The frozen touch disappeared. He clung to Geralt, and tried to rock up against each thrust, though his muscles felt weak and overused. 

Geralt kissed his neck, pressing his face there, his jaw clenched. Jaskier wrapped his legs tightly around Geralt’s hips and hung on. 

The howl was a scream, whistling through the broken house, bits of clay and wood dropping on them as the place seemed to be shaking apart. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered against his skin. He said it again, and the bed beneath them shook like an earthquake had hit. 

“Jaskier,” he said a third time, and rocked forward with a grunt. Geralt shuddered and kissed him as he lost himself to the pleasure. 

Warmth. Warmth covered Jaskier, even as the cold breeze pushed through the room and the wall to his left fell outward, crumbling into a pile. The screaming stopped, slowing like a voice that had been wound up and was running out, slowly. 

Despite the great hole where the wall used to be, the room felt warmer. They lay there, panting, shaking, miraculously _warming up_ , until some other chunk of the house fell and Jaskier flinched at the noise.

“Geralt.”

“Hm.” Geralt nosed at his neck and shifted above him. 

“Is it over?” He thought it was. Just being warm again felt so different, it had to mean something, but he was almost afraid to believe it.

“I think so.” Geralt stared at him for a long time, seemingly examining his face. Then he rolled up and stood. Jaskier would have liked to lie there longer, covered in Geralt’s warmth, but that would have to wait. 

Jaskier jumped up, ignoring his aches and pains, and dragged his clothes back on while Geralt dressed. He stared at the gaping hole in the wall, afraid to even try to step through it. 

Geralt held his hand out. Jaskier took it, and they stepped over the rubble together. 

Once outside, Jaskier bent double, his hands on his knees, and took several deep breaths. “Gods, by the gods . . .”

When he straightened, he slammed into Geralt, hugging him fiercely. “Thank you.”

Geralt’s hand cupped the back of his head. “I’m sorry I left. When I woke, I didn’t remember you.”

“It played tricks on you, same as me,” Jaskier said. He stepped back and wrapped his arms around himself. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me on purpose.”

“I wouldn’t.” Geralt regarded the small house. Then he stretched his hand out and blasted it with magic, three, four, five times, until the whole structure collapsed. The darkness surrounding it in a cloud dissipated, then floated up until it disappeared. “No one else can be trapped here now.”

“Let’s get out of here?” Jaskier said, and started walking down the path. 

“No.” Geralt stopped him and turned him toward Roach. “You ride so we can get you to a healer faster.”

Jaskier’s smile wavered a moment, then he stepped forward and kissed Geralt. This warm kiss wasn’t part of freeing him from the thing in the house, and that made it even better. Geralt kissed him back, both hands on his face, their lips dragging together, catching, until Jaskier was left breathless. 

Once he was in the saddle, Geralt mounted Roach behind him, and Jaskier was grateful for the warmth. Geralt pulled a cloth from his pack and tore it in half, then reached around Jaskier to wrap his hands. Jaskier felt safe there, Geralt a solid presence behind him, arms around him to grip the reins. He let himself lean back, and sighed when one of Geralt's arms went firmly around his waist. “So, you forgot me? Quite a—a feat, I’m sure. I’ve always fancied myself as somewhat unforgettable.”

“Shocking.”

“How’d you remember me, then?”

“That terrible song you wrote about me.”

Jaskier chuckled. “I love that song, more now than before. Oh, you still have my lute.”

“I almost sold it.”

“Brute,” he said with a laugh. After a few moments of riding in silence, trying his best to ignore every ache and pain Roach's steps aggravated, and the hardness of the saddle where he most needed something soft, he asked, “Can we stay in an inn tonight? Just a regular inn, in a regular town?”

“I’ll pay for an inn.”

“Thank you.”

“One room," Geralt said, "unless you prefer—"

“One room is more than enough,” Jaskier said, relieved he didn’t have to beg not to be left alone even though he knew that once he got to sleep, if he could, he would hopefully, probably, be dead to the world for hours on end. “Provided there are no maidens or husbands or ghosts to crowd us out.”

“No one, _nothing_ ,” Geralt said, his voice low in Jaskier's ear, “will get near you unless you want them to.”

He felt weak with relief that Geralt seemed to understand what he needed, at least for a while. “Thank you.”

“But no singing about bosoms.”

Jaskier laughed and let his head fall back against Geralt's shoulder. “You have yourself a deal.” 


End file.
